


The Side of the Demons

by thatonedudewiththename (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Demon Sherlock, Hunter John, M/M, Purgatory, i almost cried writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thatonedudewiththename
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, hunter of all things that go bump in the night, falls into a pit in a cave while on a hunt and is transported to Purgatory. There, rather violently, he meets a demon, who promises to help him escape in return for his freedom. But what is this supposed demon's angle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> I almost cried. It's happy I promise.

'This day could not possibly get any worse,' John thought as the vampire lunged at him, causing him to tip backwards into the hole he had been trying so desperately to avoid and the vampire, two werewolves, and a dragon had been trying so ferociously to protect. The others were dead, it was just this stupid fucking vampire left, but now it looked like the both of them were going to die. 'Please be quick and painless, please be quick and painless,' he pleaded on the way down. There was a cold light, a flash of swirling light blue, and then nothing.

Trees surrounded him on all sides. Dark, thick, and scraggly, they were eerily still, even though a cold breeze blew through wherever he was. Standing, he turned in a circle slowly for any clues as to what kind of situation he'd landed himself in when he came face-to-face with a pack of werewolves. He sighed and muttered under his breath, "Shit." before taking out a silver dagger and standing in a defensive position.  
The obvious leader of the pack laughed heartily, which melded into a growl. "Fight all you want, son, you ain't got a snowball's chance in hell. Or, should I say, a hunter's chance in Purgatory?"  
John cocked his head to the side a little. "Purgatory? What-"  
However, he didn't get to finish his sentence, for a werewolf to his left lunged at him, knocking him backwards and his head against a rock. Dazed, he slashed wildly above him, not expecting to hit anything but was a little proud when he did and the werewolf screeched, stumbling up and backwards. This gave John enough time to stand and prepare himself for the next attack, which came immediately afterwards by a more aggressive member of the pack. He blocked a slash that would've shredded his throat using his knife and then countered with a gash to the taller creature's chest. The werewolf yowled, and two more joined him with others waiting on the sidelines. John calculated his odds quickly in his mind, but really there was no need; even in his prime, there was no way he would win this fight against a pack of what, eight, ten lycanthropes?  
That didn't mean he wouldn't go down swinging.  
Two quick jabs took out the werewolf he'd cut earlier, which was countered by the others with a blow to his left cheek and a slice to his stomach, which he only barely pulled back from to keep from being evicerated; however his shirt was ripped. "That was my favourite shirt," he grumbled, punching one out who got too close.  
"Shame." Said the leader with fake apology in his tone before stabbing his claws through his shoulder.  
John howled in pain; not only had that been his bad shoulder, those claws were really fucking long and jagged, as if they'd been broken. Not surprising, considering the age and obvious experience of the leader. But John barely had the chance to process this information before his vision began to blur and his mind turned fuzzy from the pain and early stages of bloodloss, which explained why he didn't see the dark, wispy figure strike down all of the werewolves in a matter of minutes with his knife, or really hear said figure call out his name just as he passed out.

When he awoke covered in a dirty black peacoat, he sat up quickly and took out his gun, only to be greeted with an extraordinary amount of pain shooting through his bad shoulder, which he gripped and bit back a cry. "I wouldn't move, if I were you," A deep, baritone voice spoke out, sending shivers down his spine. John used his unhurt arm to point the gun at whoever or whatever spoke, and was shocked to find a lean, tall figure with fantastic black, curly hair and odd, pale blue eyes with gold in the center of the irises reclining beside him against a log. 'Had he been there before...?' John asked himself in thought. Aloud, he questioned, "Who are you?"  
"Put the gun away and I'll tell you," the man replied cooly with an English accent like John's, turning his face from the fire to him. A moment's hesitation passed, and then John tucked it in the back of his waistband. "Thank you. My name is Sherlock. I'm a demon."  
Out came a flask of holy water, which was tossed rather hastily onto Sherlock, who closed his eyes until the burning disipated. When they opened, they were fully black, but after he blinked they were blue again. "Yes, thank you for that, John. Can we please continue this conversation in a more civilised manner?" He questioned.  
John shuffled back, still holding out the flask. "What do you want?"  
"A thanks would be nice. After all, I saved your life from those werewolves back there." Sherlock remained where he was, making no attempt to come closer.  
"What. Do you. Want?" John asked again more firmly.  
The stoic but calm expression of the demon was maddening, but at least he didn't appear to want to eat his innards. Also, there was something about him that made John feel... at ease. However, he tried to shove that away. "I want to help you. I know of a way out of Purgatory, but you must take me with you. And you can trust me; I don't break my promises." Sherlock said. His tone was sincere, but sincerity was easy to fake.  
"Why should I trust you?" John asked with contempt, flask waivering a bit.  
"What reason do I have to lie to you? I'm offering a way out for both of us, one which I cannot attempt without you."  
'I'm trusting him too easily. Why am I trusting him so easily?' John berated himself mentally. There was something about this demon that threw him off, clouded his senses but also amplified them. It was strange and confusing and why was he lowering the flask what is happening- "... Alright. Alright, fine."  
The smile he received was small and crooked, but it sent a wave of warmth through him; John wrote it off as hot flashes from the cold atmosphere contrasting with the warmth of the peacoat. Speaking of which- "Is this yours?" He held up a corner of the coat, brow raised.  
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. A fire would attract too much attention, so I just..." He waved a hand at John.  
"You gave me your coat so I wouldn't get cold," It was more statement than question, with a hint of amusment in it.  
"Don't read too much into it, your injuries were fairly severe and I didn't want you dying before we got to the exit. You are my only ticket out of here."  
John shrugged. "Whatever you say." His expression was smug.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Get some rest. We have a long journey ahead of us."

^

Afternoon didn't quite look like afternoon in Purgatory; the sky was a dull slate colour that was reminiscent of London, but was too... different. Like all of the colour was washed in monotone instead of being clouded over. "So I never told you my name." John jogged to catch up to the long-legged demon as he spoke.  
"I know who you are, John. I knew you up there, on Earth." Sherlock replied.  
John frowned. "I don't remember-"  
"Stay back." Sherlock pressed his arm across John's chest as he stepped into a crevice in the rock face of the mountain they'd been walking along, raking John with him. John was about to speak when a rougarou passed them by, thankfully looking the other direction. After a moment of turning its head in all directions as though searching for something, it bounded off down the hill opposite them. Seconds passed, and then Sherlock released the hunter. "Let's go." He whispered. He walked more swiftly now; John had to practically jog to keep up.  
"As I was saying, I don't remember you. I'm fairly certain I would, considering, well those." He motioned at Sherlock's sharp cheekbones. "Those things could scratch diamonds."  
Sherlock's expression was bemused. "John Watson, are you complimenting me?"  
"Me? Complimenting you? A demon?"  
"Stranger things have happened."  
"Have they? Do tell."  
"Well, you ended up here, in Purgatory, the place where all of the spirits of creatures go when they die. Probably the worst place for a hunter."  
"Geeh, thanks, now I feel safe."  
"Don't worry, you're fine."  
"How's that, then?"  
"You're with me. As long as you are, you've nothing to fear."  
And, John found, there wasn't.

They walked until nightfall, keeping a low profile by sleeping up in the trees, as a group of sirens were camping in the spot they had previously been in before they arrived. "This is extremely uncomfortable." John said in a hushed tone while rearranging himself on his two branches.  
"Terribly sorry, do let me get you something." Sherlock monotoned, eyes closed, reclined on his own branch.  
John mocked him rather exaggeratedly, then rolled his eyes and pulled his coat tighter around him in an attempt to cut out the biting chill air. Higher up from the ground, the temperature was worse, and without anything to keep warm that wouldn't attract attention besides a jacket, it felt colder than it really was. So when, about a half hour later, Sherlock heard John's teeth chattering and shaky breathing, he sat up, removed his peacoat, and draped it over John's shivering frame.  
About two minutes later, John's teeth had stopped chattering.

As soon as the sun was up the next morning and the sirens had moved on, Sherlock took back his coat and woke John. "Come on soldier, let's get marching." He said. Rather gracefully, he stepped off his branch and landed easily on his feet, looking up at John and waiting.  
"Show-off," John muttered, crouching on all threes (his left arm was still badly hurt) to look for where he'd climbed up. Finding it, he swung himself slowly down to the branch beneath him, and then to the one under that - snap. John's eyes shot wide. "Oh shi-"  
He was cut off by the tree limb breaking all of the way and him falling rather ungracefully all the way down to the ground below. Except, there was no impact. No bones breaking. Only... "I've got you,"  
John opened his eyes and looked up into the face of the demon who had now saved his life twice. "It's alright, I've got you." Sherlock repeated, holding him tighter than was strictly necessary.  
There was something in his eyes that made John's stomach flip-flop. His arms were so strong, so protecting that the hunter did not want to be let go. "Yes, I... I can see that, thank you." He muttered. For what felt of an eternity, they stared at each other; John with brows slightly furrowed, almost examining; Sherlock with something unidentifiable but very human behind his eyes and something even more so in his features. Finally, John spluttered, "Yes, right, well, thank you again for catching me, if you would be so kind as to let me go that would be super."  
Sherlock lowered his head. "Right, of course." He set him down gently.  
'Too gently,' John's subconscious warned. Ignoring it, John dusted himself off and straightened out his clothes with his functioning arm, not noticing or pretending not to notice Sherlock's eyes on him, observing. Turning resolutely, he clapped his hands once and questioned, "Where now, Sherlock?"  
There was silence for a moment, but then "Stay straight and follow me." Sherlock walked past him, head not held as high as before and strides not as wide as they'd been before the fall.

^

Hours passed of walking and silence, except for the occasional whisper to stay quiet when they hid from passing monsters. It was maddening, really; John had no idea why they weren't talking, after all nothing serious had happened... had it? So Sherlock caught him when he fell, so what? Nothing... nothing had happened, not in the least.  
So why was it so difficult to open his mouth and speak?  
Just as he was about to, Sherlock stopped and pointed ahead. "There. Our way out."  
Where he was pointing was a swirl of blue and white, shimmering upon a hill. John was so relieved. "Let's go, then!" He whisper-cried.  
"Not yet. There is something you must do first."  
"Anything."  
"I need you to let me possess you."  
John's heart fell to his stomach. "What?"  
"Or I could stay in your arm until you find my vessel and drop me in. Your choice."  
"Arm, definitely."  
"Alright." Sherlock gave John a slip of paper before he took John's knife and cut a small slit along the hunter's forearm, saying some weird spell that turned him into black smoke, which then dove into the cut in his arm.  
And shit, did it hurt!  
"Fucking Christ." John swore through his teeth, holding that particular area of his arm as he ran to the swirling light. Up, up, up the hill he went, and then through the light he dove.


	2. London

It was late in the evening when John surfaced on Earth. He didn't know where he was or even if he was actually alive, but judging by the shooting pain in his left shoulder and right forearm he was definitely alive. Climbing out of the ground, he took out his knife and held it backwards, blade pointing behind him. With the other hand he grabbed the piece of paper Sherlock had given him and used the fading sunlight to read it.  
'The portal leads to a forest in America. Fly back to London, get a car, and go to the address 221B Baker Street. My landlady Mrs. Hudson will help you from there.  
-SH'  
John sighed; he should've just let Sherlock possess him.

Making a passport wasn't that difficult, but getting money for a ticket to London was, and he struck out at all of the bars he'd stopped at on his way to the airport. The last one was a biker joint; not exactly ideal for a man of his size and stature, but thankfully the bikers were legit and gave him his money when he won their games of cards and pool. Once he had gotten everything he needed, he hid his guns, knives, holy water, and multiple I.D's in an X-ray-proof false bottom in his suitcase. As soon as he was through customs, he quickly boarded the plane and sat in his seat before falling asleep-and staying asleep-the whole flight.

^

221B Baker Street wasn't exactly what he'd expected; it was a secluded flat building in the lesser part of London, surrounded by old, crumbling buildings and warehouses. The landlady was nice enough, definitely a legit psychic if the wardings on the walls of her flat and the distant look in her eyes said anything. "Oh Sherlock got out of Purgatory, did he? Your arm? Ah yes, I taught him that. Don't need to rush, dear, it's perfectly safe. Here's the incantation. Sherlock's vessel is right over here. Saved it for him, I did, in case he ever got out. Looks like I was right to."  
She was a bit of a Chatty Kathy, but John figured she had every right to be, considering her only company were spirits.  
The vessel wasn't in too bad of shape ("Only been dead a couple days when I found it. Good thing Sherlock let me keep the spare key."). The freezer was a fairly good one and had done its job well, which was surprising as the state of the building itself left much to be desired. John recut over the glowing and moving part of his right forearm and said the incantation, watching the smoke move from his arm straight into the vessel in the icebox. After a moment or two of repair, Sherlock opened his black eyes and sat up. Blinking the black away, he stood, stepped out, and then turned to face the two. "Mrs. Hudson, as always, thank you for being prepared." He thanked, bowing his head.  
"Of course, Sherlock. I knew you were coming back, so I-"  
The demon cut her off by then speaking to John, who was still somewhat wary. "And John, of course, thank you for persevering and returning me to my vessel."  
"What else was I going to do, live my life with-"  
That was when Sherlock did something entirely unexpected; he took John's unhurt hand, held it up, bent at the waist, and kissed it. John stared with wide eyes, cheeks turning a dark shade of red as he watched Sherlock press his lips to his hands for longer than he thought strictly necessary, if kissing his hand was necessary at all. When he let go of the hand and stood up straight once more, John still didn't move. In fact, he wasn't even sure if he was breathing. Sherlock furrowed his brows. "John."  
No response. He tried again, louder. "John?" Cautiously, he touched his shoulder.  
The recoil happened so fast neither Mrs. Hudson nor Sherlock saw John move; he was just suddenly holding Sherlock against the wall with a knife to his neck. "WHAT in the BLOODY HELL was that?!" Demanded the still blushing hunter.  
Sherlock frowned further. "I'm not certain what you mean."  
John dug the knife deeper, and Mrs. Hudson yelped and fled. "Why did you kiss my hand?! There was no reason for that!"  
"I was merely trying to be gentlemanly. You know, human stuff."  
"I get that, yes, but you don't do it to men, least of all me!"  
Sincere confusion spread across Sherlock's countenance. "And why not?"  
The hunter was not prepared for that question. The anger faded from his face quickly and was replaced by flusterment. His eyes moved as he tried to come up with a believable lie. "Well, because..." When he found nothing, the anger returned as did the pressure of the knife. "Because you can't! It makes people uncomfortable!"  
"You mean makes you uncomfortable?" The demon looked so smug John wanted to off him right then and there.  
"Whatever! Don't do it again!"  
"Of course," Sherlock straightened his coat when John released him, eyes sparkling in amusement, "my apologies."  
John waved him away with his knife. "I'm leaving. If I ever see you again, I'm exorcising you on the spot, you hear me?"  
"Absolutely, John. But would you care for a cuppa first?"  
Tempting. Also strange; since when do demons drink tea? John weighed the pros and cons of drinking tea with a demon, and although the cons outweighed the pros by a large margin, his stomach growled when the score was being tallied and he accepted the offer. "Only if I can put you in a Devil's Trap."  
Something in Sherlock's expression brightened, and he smiled that smile that was more grimace than anything, only it looked more genuine this time. "I expected nothing less. I'll ring Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock's flat was classier than John had expected. It was messy, sure, but homely and oddly decorated; "Sherlock" screamed from every corner. "Is that a real human skull?" He asked the demon as he stood from making the Devil's Trap in the place where Sherlock's chair would be.  
Sherlock looked to where the skull sat on the mantlepiece as he came back with the tray of tea things. "Yes. It was a gift from an associate of mine."  
"Why did I expect any different," John muttered beneath his breath to himself. As Sherlock fixed the tea, John moved the chair back into its original position and fixed any gaps the movement may have caused. Once both actions were finished, both man and demon sat in their seats and sipped tea. "So how long have you been hunting?" Sherlock asked.  
John frowned. "Small talk? That doesn't really seem like your area,"  
"I'm developing my people skills."  
"Well, since before I enlisted. It was really more of a hobby of sorts, but after I came back it... became my life."  
Sherlock frowned. "Something happened."  
"That obvious?"  
"For multiple reasons; one, your left shoulder tenses when you talk of it; two, you touch your leg as if it hurts, although I've never seen you limp; three, your expression darkens slightly and your eyes become distant like you're remembering something; four-"  
"I get it, I'm an open book," John rubbed his temples with his free hand, "what are you, a PI?"  
"My vessel was a Consulting Detective. I took over and moved his practice."  
"Of course you did." John whispered to himself, taking a sip of his tea.  
"Now you're irritable. Talking about your life after combat upsets you."  
"You know, I can see why you're developing your people skills."  
Sherlock smiled; not smugly, more in humour. "And yours leave much to be helped."  
John swallowed a smile along with his tea. "I'm almost done with my cuppa. You've got two minutes."  
That thing that had brightened in Sherlock's expression dimmed noticably, but John's subconscious blocked it out. "I won't press the subject further if it upsets you. I'm trying to be friendly, not rude."  
Struck dumb by the blatant honesty, John almost dropped his tea. After a moment, he found his voice. "'Be friendly'? What for?"  
"I'm sort of... new at this." Sherlock swirled his tea in his cup.  
"New to what?" John barely managed to get out.  
"Making friends."  
Silence fell between both of them until John shot up while chugging down the rest of his tea. "Well, this has been absolutely lovely, but I really must go now." He set down his teacup on the tray, scratched a line out of the Devil's Trap, and then strode toward the door.  
"John."  
The hunter stopped, but didn't turn around. "Thank you for helping me and... and for humouring me with tea. I appreciate it."  
There was a beat, and then John was gone.

^

None of the motels John went to had vacancy, so he was forced to sleep in a small park on a bench like bum. It wasn't as if he hadn't been homeless before... in fact, he was homeless. But for most hunters, that was typical.  
He had been lying there on the bench for a couple of hours trying to sleep when a figure approached him. Tall, with curly hair and a trenchcoat with the collar turned up. John squinted to try and see his face, but the streetlamp behind the figure prevented that from happening. "That doesn't seem very comfortable," he said.  
"It's fine, really." John replied.  
"I have an extra room in my flat if you'd like to stay there."  
"I couldn't," This stranger seemed familiar...  
"You could put a Devil's Trap outside your door if it makes you feel better."  
It finally sank in. "Sherlock?"  
"Hello, John."  
"Are you stalking me?" John sat up with his knife and holy water out.  
"Merely out for a stroll."  
"I told you that the next time I saw you I'd exorcise you on the spot."  
"Except you won't, will you?"  
"Won't I?" A small book came out of John's inside pocket.  
"No," Sherlock placed a long, thin hand on the book and lowered it, "you won't."  
John let out a breath. "No, God help me."  
Sherlock smiled. "Come on, let's get you warm."

Sherlock actually did have an extra room in his flat, and although it wasn't very big it was clean and orderly. 'Probably the only room that is,' John thought as he set his bag down on a chair in the corner of the room next to a dresser. "It's not much, but it should be fine for as long as you'd like to stay." Sherlock told him.  
"You mean the night?" John corrected.  
"Yes," Sherlock lowered his head, "the night."  
John raised a brow, but did not say a thing of it. "Well, thanks again for your hospitality."  
"Of course. Anytime." Sherlock left, the door closing behind him.

A few hours later, while John slept, Sherlock got up from his own bed and shuffled noiselessly to his guest's bedroom. Upon arriving, he was surprised to find no Devil's Trap outside the door. Figuring he must've forgotten, Sherlock carefully opened the door and peered in, eyes changing to black to help his eyes adapt to the low light; there was John, sleeping on his back with a gun in one hand and a knife peeking out from beneath the pillow. He saw holy water under the bed and salt on the windowsill as well as in front of the door. He chuckled in spite of himself and silently closed the door again. But, instead of going back to his room, he sat against the wall opposite and closed his eyes, dreaming of days long since passed.

Immediately upon waking, John sensed something was amiss. Standing swiftly, he examined each salt line and found that the one in front of the door was swept outwards a bit, like it would be if the door had been opened. When he did indeed open the door, he found Sherlock sitting across from it sound asleep, curled up in a ball with his dressing gown wrapped about him. "Did he sleep there?" John whispered.  
"Hhh...?" Sherlock mumbled half-asleep, stirring and then opening his eyes.  
"Did you sleep here outside my door all night?" John asked loudly, more to wake him than in anger.  
"Not... all night, more like late in the night until now." Sherlock answered, standing and stretching.  
"Why?"  
"Keeping watch. You..." He yawned. "You didn't put a Devil's Trap on the floor."  
"What, so you were concerned for my safety?" A blush crept up onto John's cheeks.  
The demon shrugged nonchalantly. "I suppose so, yes."  
The blush now jumped across John's face, and he lowered his head. "Oh. Thank you, I guess."  
"You're welcome." Sherlock smiled. At that moment, he realised John was only in his pants and t-shirt and coughed. "Yes, well, I'll get breakfast started, shan't I? Unless you'd like to get going..."  
Most of the disappointment was lost on John, but some of it was noticed and he smiled the slightest bit. "That sounds lovely, Sherlock, thank you."  
Sherlock brightened, but tried to hide it. "Brilliant."

Sort of burnt toast with jam, scrambled eggs, and two small slices of ham was what awaited John when he arrived at the dining table. "I wasn't sure if you took coffee or tea with your breakfast, so I made both. And I have some cream and sugar here if you need it." Sherlock said, pushing the little China glass pitcher and container over to him.  
John smiled a bit. "Thanks."  
"And if you want butter, I've got it here. Sorry about the mess, I had experiments going but they're not important."  
"Yes, thank you."  
Sherlock set a vase with a flower in it between them, but off to the side a bit so it wouldn't come between their faces. John's brows came together at the sight of it, but he didn't say a word.  
He'd just finished his eggs when he felt eyes watching him. Lifting his eyes, he saw Sherlock staring. "Yes, can I help you?" He asked.  
"Do you like it?"  
'Is he serious?' John thought. "... It's good. Not fantastic, but good."  
Sherlock seemed so proud of himself that John decided not to tell him that the eggs were a little rubbery and the ham was undercooked. He smiled a little and continued eating. "So what were you, before becoming a detective?"  
"Is it my turn, now, to be the one to undergo small talk?"  
"You said my people skills needed work."  
"I did, didn't I? Well, I and my brother-"  
"You've got a brother?" John choked on his coffee.  
"Yes, Mycroft, my and my vessel's older brother. Anyway, my brother and I were angels before we fell."  
"Really?"  
"Yes. We fell a few hundred years ago, long after Lucifer had. Mycroft did because of the corruption he saw, and I did because I... fell in love. With a mortal I had seen in the future."  
"Really?" John oggled.  
"You make it seem like this is unbelievably interesting."  
"Well it is! I mean, you're an angel!"  
"Not anymore."  
The sadness in those two words really hit John in the gut. Breakfast forgotten, he questioned, "I thought fallen angels were just angels that got cut off from heaven."  
"It was Mycroft's idea to convert to demon form. He knew we would never survive as angels in a world full of evil, even if we were fallen. He was right, of course."  
"You can do that?"  
"With the right connections, you can do anything. Mycroft is a very connected demon."  
"What does he do now? Your brother, I mean?"  
"He's the British government, in a sense of the word. Fairly important."  
John's brows raised. "He certainly did well for himself."  
"Yes, well, he was never one to stand for corruption. His position ensures that never happens."  
John nodded slowly, letting the information sink in. After a moment, he asked, "You said you fell in love with a mortal from the future. Who was it?"  
Sherlock's expression was sad. "He... he was like you."  
John felt heat in his cheeks again. He lowered his head and picked at his food.

It was forenoon when John finished brushing his teeth and getting himself ready to go. As usual, his subconscious blocked out Sherlock's obvious disappointment at seeing him leave. "Thanks again for the hospitality, Sherlock. I appreciate it."  
"Anytime, John." Sherlock said rather quietly.  
They hugged. Awkwardly. And it wasn't even a full hug; at least, not on John's end. It was only a few seconds long, and then John muttered a "cheerio" and left, not hearing Sherlock's empty "cheerio" in return.

Outside on the pavement, John's subconscious blocked the empty feeling in his gut at having to leave Sherlock's flat. It didn't, however, block the sadness of Sherlock's story of his and his brother's fall.  
Just as he was about to take his first step away from the flat building, a car pulled up beside him. The window rolled down to reveal a pretty young lady on her phone. "Get in," she told him, not looking up.  
"Excuse me?" John asked, hand automatically going behind him to the gun tucked in his waistband.  
"That's not necessary." She said. "We're not kidnapping you."  
Looking around, John considered his options a moment, then decided he might as well see what "they" wanted. He walked around to the other side and got in just in time for the car to speed off.


	3. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as long as the others, but adding more would've dragged the storyline.

They pulled up to a warehouse, the lady Athena-also a demon-exiting the car with John and motioning him toward a man resting against an umbrella. "Hello, John." The man greeted.  
John raised a brow, approaching him cautiously. "... Hello. Who are you?"  
"Well, I'm sure Sherlock mentioned me."  
Brows together, John came to a stop. "Mycroft?"  
"The very same."  
"Was all of the dramatic flair really necessary?"  
"Believe me, Sherlock is fair more dramatic than I am."  
"What do you want, then?"  
"Just to make you aware of my brother's... interest, in you."  
John frowned.   
Mycroft rolled his eyes, which blinked red and then back to normal. "He told you of our fall story, yes? How he fell for a mortal from the future?"  
John's subconscious was on fire, holding the truth back from his conscious. "I don't follow."  
"The mortal was you, John. Sherlock fell in love with you."  
'No no no no no.' John took two steps back. "Wh... what?"  
"The mortal from the future that Sherlock became a fallen angel for was you."  
'Sherlock fell in love with you' 'Fell in love with you' 'Fell in love' 'Fell' 'Fell' 'Fell' 'Fell'   
John fainted.

^

"John? John, are you alright?"   
John opened his eyes, immediately settling on two concerned pairs of eyes staring down at him from above. "John, can you hear me?"   
"Sherlock...?" John muttered in confusion, frowning and sitting up on his elbows. "How did I get... how did I get here?"  
"Mycroft dropped you off after you fainted on him. That bastard."  
Everything came rushing back, his eyes widening with each memory wave. And with it, anger. Lashing out he grabbed Sherlock by the scruff of his button-up shirt. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THAT THE PERSON FROM THE FUTURE THAT YOU FELL IN LOVE WITH WAS ME?!?"  
Sherlock's brows came together. "Did Mycroft-"  
"YES, Mycroft told me! The question is, why didn't YOU?!"  
Silence from Sherlock, his expression blank; it was maddening. John wanted to punch him. "TELL ME!"  
"ALRIGHT!" Sherlock growled, black eyes flashing, causing John to recoil a bit. "Alright. I'll tell you." His face lowered to the floor. "When I was an angel, my job was to watch over the soldies and warriors of all wars, both past, present, and future. One day, while I was looking into the future-a few years ago, now-I saw you, just enlisted, on the plane to Afghanistan. You looked so scared, John, but so confident, so determined. I watched you every day after that, for hours after I had done my rounds on the other soldiers and warriors. When you were scared, I comforted you. When you were worried, I reassured you. Sometimes, I even watched you sleep, just to make sure you were alright. But then you got shot.   
"Oh, John, I was so frightened for you. It was when I tried to jump into the future and they wouldn't let me that I decided to leave with Mycroft. And, since I never got to see into the future after you were shot, I didn't know if you were alive, and that killled me. I felt like I wasn't good enough, that I didn't deserve to be an angel because I hadn't saved you. That was why I decided to convert to a demon like Mycroft had. Angels are supposed to be helpful, powerful, saving warriors of God; I had been none of those things, so I had no right to call myself an angel."   
John stared at him with wide, watering eyes. "If I," Sherlock lifted his face to John's, but kept his eyes down and away, "if I hadn't been able to save you, what purpose had I to be good?"  
Tears trickled down John's face at the raw emotion in the demon's words; this, fallen angel, had more humanity than any person he'd ever seen. "Sherlock..."  
"But then I saw you, John! In Purgatory! I was so stricken, I thought I was hallucinating. But then the werewolf stabbed you, and you screamed, and all I saw was you dying from that gunshot, and I... I attacked them, killed them with your knife. When you woke up, I didn't know how to act around you (I was a bit of an arsehole, wasn't I?), but I was determined to help you escape from Purgatory at any cost." Finally, Sherlock's eyes looked into John's, full of emotion and energy the likes of which John had only seen in the eyes of dying soldiers.   
"I never... I never knew, Sherlock, I am so... so terribly sorry."  
"It's fine, John, really; you're alive, and that's all that matters to me now. That, my job, and finding a flatshare."  
John blinked. "I could be your flatshare."  
Sherlock turned to him with his head cocked slightly. "You what?"  
"I mean, I don't have money, but I could give you some when I do. I'll be quiet; you won't even know I'm there. Well, of course I won't really be there all the time (I am a hunter, you know), but when I am I'll help out, promise!"  
John had no reason to explain further; Sherlock was already beaming in his usual, small-smile way, but the light was definitely there. "I would be happy to have you as my flatmate, John. You needn't even ask."

^

The spare room in Sherlock's flat became John's permanent (at least for the time being) home. He and Sherlock put away his clothes and various hunting knick-knacks, as well as some other things from times long passed, before John had gotten shot in Afghanistan and was discharged from service. It was during this moment of putting these things away that Sherlock asked, "What did happen when you came back from war?"  
John faltered in his organising of his books in the small bookcase to the right of his bed, picking back up and answering, "... I'd rather not say."  
"But I told you about my life before this. It's only fair you do the same."  
"I didn't ASK for you to tell me!" John shouted suddenly, eyes ablaze on the demon's face.  
"YES you DID!" Sherlock yelled back eyes black as death.  
They stared at each other, tension-filled gazes fixed until John just broke down. Leg muscles failing, he dropped to the floor crying into his hands. "Alright... I'll tell you..." He hiccuped.  
Sherlock grimaced and got down on his knees in front of him, placing a thin hand on his right shoulder. "Dammit, I'm sorry. If it's really that bad, you don't have to tell me."  
"No, I-I want to. If we're going to be flatmates, you deserve to know." John took a few shaky deep breaths, eyes closed with his hands clenched into fists to still their shaking. After a few moments, he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and began, "Ok, I'm ready. I can do this. Ok." He took another deep breath before continuing. "Nobody knew my pregnant wife Mary had been murdered until I came home and found her lying in the middle of our hallway evicerated and my unborn child lying beside her with his neck broken. The umbilicle cord was still connected to his belly button, but he and my wife were cold and stiff. They were just beginning to smell, so they'd been dead a day or two, three at the most since our house was freezing. I saw small footprints tracking their blood everywhere, left behind from the creatures who had come into our house to eat from their corpses. When I found them like that, lying there hardly disturbed, I fainted.  
"Just... dead fainted. I didn't wake until night and had to relive the nightmare over again. Right away, I knew that they had been killed by something supernatural; there was too much damage done to the walls and doors to be some sick psychopath, even if he had an axe or a chainsaw, though I suspect the neighbors would have heard. After I had..." John pinched the bridge of his nose, brows dipped, teeth clenched. "After I had done my grieving, I set out to find what had murdered my family. It was a demon, of course, why would it be anything else? I had wanted it to be something else, something I could kill quickly, because I knew that if it wasn't God help whatever it was because I would torture that bastard until it begged for me to end its life.  
"I don't remember the demon's name. Perhaps I never knew it in the first place. Whoever it was, I beat them so badly, Sherlock, for days I tortured them. Cut them. I gouged their fucking eyes out, I cut off their hands and feet after ripping off their fingers and toes with my bare hands!" Tears and snot ran down John's face. "It went on for three days before I finally exorcised them. But the truth is, Sherlock, I didn't feel any better. In fact, once I had cleaned up, I felt worse. Mary wouldn't have approved of my actions, and neither would've my son.   
"I have to live with that every day, Sherlock. Every day. No amount of drinking and prayer and sleepless nights, no amount of running and hunting will ever make that go away. And I've accepted that."   
Sherlock stared at his flatmate with sadness in his eyes. Slowly, he lifted his arms and carefully wrapped them around John, bringing him in close for a fragile, tender hug. After a few moments, John broke down sobbing and hugged Sherlock tightly in return, burying his face in his shoulder. "Shh, it's alright, John, it's okay. I've got you. I've got you." Sherlock whispered, a single tear rolling down his right cheek.  
"I know, Sherlock, I know! I miss them so much... I miss Mary and our baby, I miss our house... I miss my life! Oh God!" John wept.  
Another tear ran down Sherlock's face; there was so much he missed about being an angel, like the ability to take away someone's pain. That's all he wanted to do right now, just take away John's pain, let him know he was loved and forgiven. But he couldn't. Because Sherlock wasn't good. He didn't deserve to be an angel, but John... John did. In fact, John already was one. In Sherlock's eyes, he was the brightest, most beautiful angel he had ever seen. "You deserve everything, John, all of it. If I could take it back, I would. It's all my fault you didn't get to be home sooner, it's my fault you didn't stop that demon from killing your family. I was so selfish, and it killed them. It killed them, and it hurt you, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. You deserve so much better, so much more than this."  
John cried harder. "I deserve what I got, Sherlock. After all, I've got you."  
This caused Sherlock to pull back, holding John by the shoulders. "I'm not good enough for you. I'm a demon, and you're this beautiful angel who is far better than I ever was."  
John laughed lightly, tears still streaming down his cheeks, but they weren't as sad as they'd been. He cupped Sherlock's left cheek in his hand. "You're the most radiant demon I'll ever want to know."

 

The End


End file.
